


It is the star to every wand'ring bark

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (kind of), Angst with a Happy Ending, Back to Middle-Earth Month, Fëanorian Week 2019, Gen, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Returning Home, Reunions, Sailing To Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 09:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: At long last, Maglor comes home.





	It is the star to every wand'ring bark

**Author's Note:**

> For B2MeM day 19 and Feanorian Week day 2! (Better late than never, right?) The B2MeM prompts were "knot, founder, intimate, aim" from the Four Words card and "Love alters not where it alteration finds" from the Shakespeare Quotes card. The title is from the same sonnet that the prompt quote is from; "wand'ring bark" means "lost ships" which seemed very fitting. For Feanorian Week, the Maglor prompt I chose to focus on was "Redemption."
> 
> I finished writing this at 4am and I was very emotional. Hope you enjoy :)

There was bound to be some debate, he assumed, as to who was the last elf to sail.

He knew Círdan claimed it was him, but he only waited until the last of the Sindar returned. There were Silvans who changed their mind—he'd met some of them—and even a few adventurous Moriquendi who set out. And he couldn't forget that one elf, what was his name? who was famous at the end of the Third Age, the one who brought a dwarf along with him. A dwarf! Not even  _he_  would have been so bold!

It was anyone's guess if they made it, once Círdan and his skills had departed. None had returned to say they hadn't, but that didn't mean much. But regardless of those who'd gone before him, Maglor was fairly certain he had the best claim. The last time he had encountered a voyager to Valinor was in the Fifth Age. It was now the dawn of the Seventh as men reckoned it, and yet he set out in a small boat and searched for the Straight Road home.

Ages and ages he spent in Middle-earth, far longer than he'd ever intended. After losing the silmaril and his final brother, he thought he would simply let the sea swallow him as well. It nearly did, when the world changed and Eru drowned Elros' kingdom, but a sudden will to live sprung up within him and he escaped to the east. He mourned the loss of Númenor more for its founder's sake than that of its people, but the loss of life awoke in himself a desire to avoid a death like theirs.

He traveled the world then, spurred into movement, hiding his ears and trying to pass as a mortal. It worked, for the most part. He met fewer and fewer elves as the years passed; as the Fourth Age began, there were hardly any Eldar to meet. The Avari became more and more reclusive, and soon a century would go by without him meeting any of his own kind.

He stopped having to hide his identity after long. The name Maglor faded into the past, and mortals' eyes seemed to look right over any of his elven characteristics. Sometimes, they would look right over him entirely.

And yet he never looked to the west. He sang his songs, struggling to recall what they sounded like in Quenya, and watched the world change. The elves vanished into the Unseen Realm; the dwarves dwindled into extinction; the halflings closed themselves off so entirely that they disappeared even from themselves. Men ruled the world, built their cities, tore them down, built them again. They complexified, decayed, rediscovered their brilliance, blossomed again until it was time to destroy themselves once more.

When mortals harnessed the power of lightning, Maglor knew this world was for him no longer. He did not have to try to be overlooked; it was a struggle to be seen. This new light would blind him from their view entirely.

He went west, to the very shores of what once had been Belegaer, and bought a boat from a fisherman who could barely remember his face as soon as he set sail. The star of Eärendil still shone bright in the night sky for any who looked for it, and Maglor knew he would either perish on the waves, arrive in America, or find the Straight Road.

He was astonished to see it. He had not known what to expect, but there it was: a current shining with the light of the Valar, leading straight into the stars.

He had sailed upon the path home for only a few hours before he saw the sun and moon pass each other in the distance. Awed, Maglor beheld as Arien and Tilion waved to each other, taking no notice of him. He had not seen one of the Ainur since Melian, and her only from a distance.

The star of Eärendil grew brighter and brighter, until Maglor could see nothing before him. A mighty splash overturned his boat, and Maglor plummeted into the water. He struggled to rise to the surface, and part of him was satisfied by the irony. So close, and yet he would die before reaching the shores of Valinor. At least he knew Mandos would be waiting to chain his spirit, while no one would be there to greet him on the shores of Alqualondë.

A hand reached out and grasped his own: shocked, Maglor allowed himself to dragged out of the sea and onto the deck of another ship. He coughed up water and breathed again, astonished that someone had helped him.

He blinked sea-salt from his eyes and turned to look blearily at his savior. At first he could not understand what he saw: it was as if his foster sons stared back at him. Those eyes were brown as Elrond's, set just like Elros's... But this man had blond hair, and his nose was the wrong shape. And upon his brow—

Maglor fell back to the deck. No, no, no! He had held a silmaril in his hand, he still had the scar where it burned his palm, rejecting him—the Oath had faded as time went by, assuaged by his brief victory, but it flared back now, driving him to tears. He could not—he  _would_  not—

"Makalaurë," said a gentle voice. "Please—let me help you. I was sent to take you home."

Maglor allowed Eärendil to help him to his feet. The Mariner provided him food, a drink, even a fresh set of clothes. Maglor stopped his tears, but a knot of horrid guilt tightened in his stomach.

"Why are you doing this?" he whispered, unable to look Eärendil in the eyes again.

"Manwë sent me for you," Eärendil said. "It has been several ages since I last have been a guide to lost ships, but it is still part of my duty. I give hope to all. Even you." He paused; when he spoke again, his voice was gravely with emotion. "Thank you for raising my sons, Makalaurë. Whatever else you did, I owe you this kindness now."

Maglor had no words. He wept again, and Eärendil patted his back. At last, he said, "Manwë sent you? Why?"

"You have been pardoned," Eärendil said simply. "The rest of the Noldor were long ago. When you set sail, they lifted the ban and allowed you to find the Straight Road. Nienna and Mandos agreed: you have suffered enough for your misdeeds. And you are the last of your brothers to be freed. Once Nelyafinwë was released from Mandos, it was not proper that you be denied, either."

"My brothers...?" Maglor gaped. "Freed? But the Oath—"

"If the Oath still bound you, the Valar would not have sent  _me_ ," Eärendil explained wryly, tapping the silmaril upon his brow. "You have not even tried to wrest the jewel from me. Is that not a sign?"

"But I  _feel_..."

"You feel guilt," Eärendil said. "As you should. But it is the guilt of remorse, not the guilt of failure."

Maglor let himself look at Eärendil, at the silmaril. It was true, he realized. The gem was painful to behold, a reminder of the blood shed for it, the torment he had endured, but he was repulsed by the very idea of taking it for himself.

"How long..." He couldn't bring himself to ask. Had he tortured himself for years, not knowing he was free?

"Not long," Eärendil assured. "It has been—hmm. A few years, I believe. Not quite a decade. Though I am unsure how you have been measuring time in Middle-earth."

Maglor wasn't sure either. "They are all free?" he asked. "Mae—Nelyo, Curvo, Moryo, all of them? Even Tyelpe?"

"All but Fëanáro," Eärendil said. "Even were he pardoned as well, he would refuse the offer. Eru will not release him until the end of days. But you, his sons, have served your time."

Eärendil rose, looking over the edge of the ship. He aimed the prow in a new direction, and Maglor looked upon the shores of Aman for the first time since he departed them.

"We are almost there," Eärendil said. "Are you ready?"

How could he be ready? Maglor could barely comprehend what Eärendil had told him. He was  _free_? His brothers awaited him? His  _mother_  awaited him? He would walk upon the shores of Alqualondë, washed clean of the blood he spilled there?

"Ah! My family awaits us!" Eärendil exclaimed. "Yours as well, Makalaurë. All six brothers, and your mother, and some others as well." He turned and beamed, his smile as radiant as the silmaril. "Do not worry—Elwing has had ample time to forgive you, as have I. Elrond quite convinced us to give you a chance, and we do not hate you."

Maglor stared. Yes, there they were: Maedhros, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, the twins reunited again—Celebrimbor, Nerdanel,  _Fingon_ , even Aredhel and Finrod had come to welcome him home! Was that Galadriel, standing beside her father? Fingolfin, regal as ever, his arm around his granddaughter Idril...and  _Tuor_ , the mortal!

Maglor wept. He could do nothing else.

The ship landed gently upon the sand, and Eärendil guided him downward. Maglor hesitated before placing his foot on solid ground, still not quite believing he had been allowed to return.

"Makalaurë." It was his mother who approached him first, smiling with joy. "It has been so long."

Maglor embraced her, wrapping his arms around her in an intimate moment he had not shared with her since long before his departure. She let go far too soon, but he did not begrudge her: his brothers enveloped him, the twins crying, Celegorm pounding him far too hard on the back, Curufin and Caranthir briefly fighting over who got to hug him first. Last was Maedhros, beautiful and two-handed again. Maglor eyes were dry as he sobbed into his older brother's chest: he had no more tears to cry, even though his body still shook.

There were so many more people to greet. Cousins, uncles, sisters-in-law (a few of whom he was meeting for the first time—the twins had been out of Mandos longest, with plenty of time to get hitched!), his grandmother Míriel who he had never before known. Elwing shook his hand, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Perhaps Eärendil had forgiven him, but Elwing still held a grudge even if she would not reject him.

Elrond looked the same as ever. Maglor had visited him in Imladris a few times, met his wife and children, and he was always so proud of the child he had raised. There were no words between them, and any fears Maglor had held about not being loved by Elrond now that Eärendil was part of his life were vanquished.

"Makalaurë!" Eärendil called. Maglor lifted his head. "I know you need time to catch up with everyone, but when you've settled in, my family and I would be honored to have you for dinner."

"All three of my fathers can be there, for once," Elrond teased. Maedhros, standing behind him, chuckled. "Poor Mother. She'll be even more outnumbered."

"His other grandfather is even odder than the one on our side," Maedhros joked. It took Maglor's breath away to see him so  _happy_. "And that's saying a lot."

"If you make one more excuse about not being the one who killed Dior personally—" Elrond began, but Maedhros only laughed.

"I meant Tuor," he said, and Maglor could tell that Elrond already knew that from the way he rolled his eyes.

"I can't believe everyone is...here," Maglor said softly. "And getting along." He heard Caranthir's snappy voice in the background, and Aredhel's shrill laugh, then shrugged. "Well, as much as they can." He wasn't sure who was being teased, but even with Fëanor still locked up, there would never be complete harmony in the House of Finwë.

"We've had ages of peace," Maedhros explained. "Even me, though I was in Mandos for most of it. Even Dior and Celegorm can hold a conversation without things blowing into an argument, and they literally murdered each other."

"I was there, I remember," Maglor said. "I've have that time, too, but..."

"You're the one who never died," Elrond finished for him. "I know that feeling." He smiled, but a little weariness lay behind it. "It is different for us. Mandos...purifies someone. But the longer you stay here, the lighter your burdens become."

"I can already feel it," Maglor said. "What is it?"

"Eru's love," Maedhros said flippantly. "It never changed, even when we spat in the face of it. At least, that's what the Valar would have us believe. We all smile and nod, because we're grateful to be alive again, but I don't think that's it." He squeezed Maglor's shoulder and led him up away from the water. "The only love that warms my heart is my own, for you and everyone else. That's what led you here, Maglor, not Eärendil's star."

Maglor smiled. His heart was warmer than it had been in millenia, and the silmarils guided his him no longer. The only star he needed now was Elrond, whose playful song now echoed into the vault of heaven that was his namesake, chorused by Maedhros, who messed up the words just to tease its writer who at last was there to hear the joke.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


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